Blood Awakening: The Strongest Hybrid and His Vampire Bride - Chapter 347

Chapter 347: The Council Seeks Action
“Now, about the previous patriarch and those who went missing.”

Ivan’s voice, as always, was steady. Not a tremor of emotion touched the syllables. But the way the room stilled again told the truth: they were all waiting for the weight of that name.

Viktor Volkov.

The only man in living memory feared by every clan. Revered by most. Hated by some.

And missing.

Mikhail Zorya was the first to speak, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. “We all knew something was off the moment the Nosferatu sent those invitations. They’ve never held a banquet in three centuries, and suddenly, a gala under moonlight? Please.”

“They baited the hook perfectly,” Irina added, her lips barely moving. “It was vanity. They lured the elders with pageantry and nostalgia.”

“And masks,” Tatiana muttered. “Don’t forget those. The Nosferatu never bare their faces unless they want to lie.”

“Which is always,” said Dimitri.

A few bitter laughs. They didn’t last long.

Alaric Drago’s voice was the rumble of grinding stone. “They weren’t alone. The wards around the banquet should have been impenetrable. That means someone inside let them fail.”

Silence again.

Then all eyes—slowly, deliberately—turned toward the fourth seat.

“To think old man Turim would betray old Viktor.” Dimitri whistled, his eyes flicking to his old friend Ivan, before Nagisa’s elbow smashed into her husband’s abdomen.

“Shut it, you big fool.”

“Ugh…!”

But the Fourth Seat was empty.

A single silver ribbon still rested on the armrest, embroidered with the sigil of the Etin Clan. Turim’s crest, left undisturbed since the night of the banquet. No cloak. No boots. No warmth. Only absence.

Silence deepened.

“He stayed,” Vasili said. Not a question. Not a theory. A fact.

“Or was taken,” offered Seraphina, though her voice held no hope.

Nagisa tapped her lower lip. “He didn’t flee like the others. He didn’t even try. That alone tells me enough.”

“I thought he was dead,” muttered Kazan. “Would’ve been cleaner.”

“He isn’t,” said Lev, his words deliberate and hushed. “He’s alive. I’ve felt his aura… faint, confused, but present. Two nights ago. Just once.”

Mikhail exhaled through his nose. “So what is he now? A hostage?”

“A collaborator,” Irina snapped. “No shield-mage fails that spectacularly by accident.”

Seraphina didn’t disagree. “If he turned… it would explain how they inverted his barrier. They didn’t shatter it—they used it.”

Alaric nodded. “A shield made to protect… bent inward to imprison. It’s brilliant.”

“And treason,” said Ivan flatly.

A heavy pause settled. The room felt suddenly colder.

Nikolai leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“Has anyone heard from the Nosferatu directly?”

Lev answered again. “Not a single word. Their borders are veiled. No letters. No envoys. No scouts return whole. If they speak at all, it’s through silence.”

“Or through what they took,” said Nagisa. “It wasn’t just Viktor. They took eight elders. Three heads. Two heirs. All during a toast.”

“And they let the rest escape,” Kazan added. “Deliberately.”

“They didn’t want war,” Seraphina murmured. “They wanted leverage.”

“And now they have it,” said Dimitri.

The weight of that truth hovered over them.

Then Ivan said, “They took the patriarch.”

No one moved.

“They took our most powerful. Our most dangerous.”

Still no sound.

“And you sit here debating motives, when you should be preparing response.”

All eyes turned toward Nikolai.

He rose.

Straight-backed. Controlled.

His voice was low. Measured.

“They took Viktor Volkov… knowing I would take his seat.”

No one dared interrupt.

“And they left Turim behind… to stain it.”

He turned his head toward the empty chair, then looked at the rest.

“They think I will hesitate. That I will wait. That I will listen to caution over instinct.”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow.

“And will you?”

Nikolai’s mouth twitched. No smirk. Just the shadow of something sharper.

“No.”

That one word landed like a hammer.

“I want surveillance on every Nosferatu property, shrine, and chapel within reach,” Nikolai said. “All clans with skilled scouts—deploy them. No border or method is sacred. Not anymore.”

He turned to Vasili. “If your people sense Turim again, I want his exact location. I don’t care if he’s wounded or pretending. We bring him back—or we bring back pieces.”

Then, finally, he turned to Ivan.

“They started this by taking our past.”

A pause.

“I’m going to end it by showing them the future.”

Ivan said nothing for a long moment.

Then, just once, he nodded.

“Then lead.”

The council chamber emptied like a tide pulling back from the shore.

Robes whispered. Boots tapped. Sigils flickered against backs as each council member withdrew into their own shadows, cloaked once more in power and private thought.

But Nikolai did not leave.

And neither did Ivan.

Nor Dimitri Fenrir. Nor Nagisa Okami.

They said nothing, even as the doors sealed behind them, the great wood shutting out the world and its watching ears.

Ivan moved first, not toward his son, but to the circular window at the chamber’s edge. Pale sunlight struck his silver hair like frost catching fire.

“You didn’t flinch,” he said, voice quiet but absolute.

Nikolai didn’t answer.

Ivan’s hand rested on the carved window frame. “They’ll talk about that. They’ll measure it.”

“They already are,” came Dimitri’s low voice, deep and sand-edged, like the scrape of paw pads on stone.

He leaned one shoulder against a column, arms crossed over his massive chest. Yellow eyes—so like his daughter’s—glowed faintly beneath furrowed brows.

Nagisa stood beside him. Slim, elegant, predatory. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. Her expression was unreadable.

“You played it well,” she said softly. “Even if you scared half the room.”

Nikolai looked at her. “The other half needed to be.”

Ivan didn’t turn from the window.

“They’re still waiting to see if you wear the title… or if the title wears you.”

“I’m not Viktor.”

“No. And that’s why you might live longer,” Ivan said.

A beat passed.

“You meant it about Lunaria?” Nagisa asked, tone gentle but pointed. “The claim?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri’s jaw flexed.

“You understand what that means for Nikita,” he said.

“I didn’t choose Lunaria over her,” Nikolai replied. “It wasn’t a competition.”

“Everything becomes one eventually,” Dimitri muttered.

Nagisa tilted her head. “Nikita won’t say it, but she watches you closer than the others. She feels it more deeply. She may forgive what the court doesn’t.”

“She’s strong,” Nikolai said quietly.

“She is,” Nagisa replied, voice almost proud. “Like her father. Like her mother. But she’s still your wife.”

Nikolai nodded once.

Ivan finally turned, eyes colder now. “Do you trust Lunaria?”

“Yes,” Nikolai answered. “She cannot betray me in that form.”

Ivan studied him. “That’s fine, but don’t make her cry, or the others.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer now, no longer speaking as the former Patriarch, but as a father.

“There will be moments,” Ivan said, “when the council looks at you and sees a boy in a throne. And they will wait. For you to fail. For you to hesitate. For you to ask advice when you should have commanded.”

“I didn’t hesitate,” Nikolai said.

“No,” Ivan agreed. “But you will. And when you do, you must lie better than you lead.”

Dimitri grunted. “For what it’s worth, you impressed me.”

“That’s rare,” Nagisa added with a small smirk.

Ivan gave no smile.

But his voice lowered.

“Strength is only remembered if it lasts.”

Then he turned and walked toward the inner hall. Dimitri followed silently, boots thudding like the steps of a coming war. Nagisa lingered a moment, her golden-violet eyes lingering on Nikolai’s.

“Don’t break my daughter,” she said, with a chuckle. “I’ve heard about it from the maids… You really went all out, didn’t you?”

Then she left, chuckling to herself after leaving Nikolai’s face red.

Ivan and Dimitri waited near the door for the young Patriarch, Nagisa, leaving ahead of them.

“Ah… sorry about that, son!” Dimitri slapped Nikolai’s shoulder. “You… better treat my little girl well, you get me?” He growled before pushing the young patriarch back and skipping out of the room with a wry smile on his lips.

“Ha…”

“Ignore that fool Nikolai.”

——

Beyond the tall windows and carved arches, a wide half-circle balcony overlooked the main plaza below.

Three young nobles stood there. All sons and daughters of minor families—watchers without seats, but with eyes like blades and tongues like wine.

Elira Voss, slender and sharp-eyed, leaned on the railing. “Did you see how he held the silence?”

Garin Morsk, broad-shouldered, snorted. “Held it? He carved it. That wasn’t diplomacy—that was a brute force… but alas, that’s how we work.”

Juno Ryel, softer in voice, tilted her head. “He didn’t flinch. Not once. Even when they said ‘Viktor.’ That wasn’t posture. That was presence, as expected of our future leader.”

“Presence doesn’t win wars,” Garin muttered.

“No,” Elira said. “But it does win loyalty.”

A pause.

Then Juno smiled faintly. “I give him an 8. For now, 10 for looks, and charm!”

“Seven,” said Garin. “Until he bleeds for it.”

“Nine,” Elira replied. “Because he already has. Just not in front of us, mother told me about him. She seems to think he will surpass Viktor.”

They watched the high doors and waited to see what their new Patriarch would do next.